That Sunny Day in Early May
by your candy perfume girl
Summary: It's a sunny day in early May when tragedy unleashes itself upon his life. Noah/Fancy. Warning: character death.


**Author's Note** – I wrote this very quickly, so my apologies if it's not up to par. It's just an idea that crossed my mind, and I had to get it out.

* * *

It's a sunny day in early May, and he has the flu. He's not vomiting, but his head hurts, and his nose is like a broken faucet, and he's generally miserable. The doctor's called in a prescription for him at the pharmacy; it's been waiting there for three hours as he's been struggling to garner the strength to get up out of bed. 

It's less than a month until her due date, and her sore, swollen feet are tucked neatly out of her view by her rounded abdomen. She's supposed to be on partial bed rest, and she's quite uncomfortable herself, but when she offers to go retrieve the medication for him, he only weakly protests before succumbing to his misery and hands her the keys.

Half an hour passes, and she hasn't returned from the ten-minute trip. He tells himself that she's just gabbing in the checkout line with one of her friends and silently curses her loquacious nature before turning off the telephone ringer and drifting off into a feverish dreamland.

* * *

A pounding at his door rouses him from his sleep and pulls him back into the bright, harsh, sick world. He closes his eyes and sluggishly pulls a pillow over his face, but the rapping continues, more urgent now, and Fancy's footsteps cannot be heard. Finally, he crawls out of bed and half-descends, half-slides down the stairs, fumbling to tie the sash around his robe. 

His father is at the door. This should alert him to the pressing tragedy preparing to unleash itself upon his life, but if he misses this signal, he can in no way miss the worry and anguish in Sam's eyes. "I tried to call you," the police chief explains, "but there was no answer."

He is suddenly filled with great trepidation; his head instantly clears, his runny nose is forgotten. "What happened?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

His father exhales deeply and stares at the couple's deep green rug just inside the doorframe before meeting his eyes. "It's Fancy."

* * *

Three years pass, and the words become like a distant echo to him, so far away, yet ever present. Placental abruption. Too much blood. Not enough time. Not his fault. They all make sure to repeat this last sentence to him over and over, like a mathematical formula he needs drilled into his head. It wasn't his fault. He couldn't have known. It wasn't his fault. 

She was supposed to be off her feet as much as possible; she'd already suffered through eight months of an extremely difficult pregnancy. He hadn't really been that bad off. He could have driven to the pharmacy himself, and she could have stayed at home, off her feet, and concentrated on delivering a healthy baby instead of worrying about his flu, too. Could have. Should have. Would have.

He breathes in the scent of the large bouquet of roses in his hand. She'd loved those flowers so. He places them atop her grave with a silent prayer that she might accept this pathetic apology of his, but he can't seem to make them lie correctly. She'd been all about fashion and décor that way. They need to stop lying like that. They look so asymmetrical.

"Daddy!" Little Hayley thrusts forth a fistful of dandelions into his face. "I picked some flowers for Mommy! Do you think she'll like them?"

He gently pries the crushed weeds from her tiny fingers and smiles gently at his daughter. "They're lovely," he whispers, stroking her golden locks, endowed upon her by her mother. "She'd love them."

Hayley smiles widely, a true, genuine smile that only children can produce, one that lights up those familiar blue eyes of hers. In a manner so resembling her mother's, she gently and precisely lays the flowers before her mother's tombstone. They lie just right, perfect and symmetrical.

"Daddy?" Hayley asks, that beautiful smile vanished from her face. "Why did Mommy have to die?"

The question is like a slap across his face. _Because I killed her_, would be the truthful answer. _I killed your mother, and I almost killed you._ But she would not understand these words, their meaning so complex, so he instead pulls his little girl into his arms and holds her tight. Together they remain, the three - two atop, one below - a family. And around them, the sunny day in early May progresses.


End file.
